Blackberries

When you look at me like that I feel dumb –
pretending you didn't make me weak in the knees.
Pretending I didn't feel them, the zaps of electricity 
crackling in your laugh.
Pretending I was ever immune
to you.
It's been six months now, but it's felt like
longer –
six months of trying to ignore how you made me feel.
And now it's almost summer, 
the season of
lemonade and crabapples,
sun-kissed afternoons by the pond,
summer camp and sunsets and
blackberry juice running down my fingers like
the blood in my veins.
And it's so unfair, I have to spend these next three months that should be heaven to me
hung up on you
missing your freckles, your smile,
the way your eyes look when they're laughing
when I know all too well you don't care
about me.
I know I should probably
hate you
after what you said, what you did,
how you tore and twisted my heart,
but here I am, writing love poem after love poem
because I tried to get over you, 
but
things just don't work like that
sometimes.
And so now you'll be a ghost all summer long,
next to me but nonexistent,
and I'll dream stolen dreams of what it'd be like to kiss you
with blackberries staining our lips
sour and sweet,
ripe with promise ...the image replaying in my mind like acamera reeluntil I can forget it never happened,and, for a second, believe you'remine.